A Kitten Comes to Baker Street
by Etaleah
Summary: Holmes is not a cat person. His friends are determined to change that.


I cannot say that there has ever been what one might call a "typical day" at Baker Street, at least not so long as Mr. Sherlock Holmes has resided there. However, he and I were having as near a thing to it as possible when we heard a noise that caused us to look up from the papers. The sound was so soft we nearly missed it over the hard rain outside, but years of dangerous work had heightened our senses.

"What was that?" Holmes asked, setting aside his section and standing up. He was already moving into the mode I have described in earlier records, that of the trained bloodhound. Of course, I was curious as well, and so I too abandoned my morning reading and joined him. He was still and scanning the room, and I was almost beginning to wonder if we had somehow both imagined the sound when it happened again.

Holmes pointed to the door. "There!" I started toward it, but he held up a hand. "Step lightly, Watson. Stray animals scare easily."

"You think it's a stray animal?" I said, lowering my voice.

"I don't think, I know." Holmes tread silently to the door, and I followed as close as I could behind him. He gently pushed the door open, and a gray blur scurried away, scratching the floor as it did so. I bent my knees to gain a view between Holmes and the door, and before us trembled a thin and frightened-looking kitten.

"How did you get in here?" Holmes was stern, which shocked me. Every time we had encountered animals before, he had shown his kinder side. I daresay he was as affectionate toward Toby the bloodhound as he ever was toward myself.

I moved past him and knelt. "Really, Holmes, that's no way to speak to our guest." I held out my hand. She was stepping away with her back arched and her tail in the air. She might have appeared threatening if not for her terrified green eyes.

"Hello," I said in a soft voice.

"Guest? More like an intruder," Holmes said.

I ignored him and beckoned with my fingers. "Come here. Come on, little one." Holmes snorted and turned back into our rooms. This seemed to give the kitten courage, as she moved to my hand and allowed me to stroke her soft, furry head. She rewarded me with a little mew, and I could not help but smile. The more I caressed her, the more she relaxed and even rubbed up against me.

"Why Holmes, she's purring!" I said, unable to hide my delight. "I don't think I've ever seen a friendlier stray."

Holmes grumbled and returned to his chair. His paper snapped behind me, and I soon smelled a cloud of tobacco, two indications that my friend was not pleased. Again, I was puzzled. How anyone could be unhappy at such a sweet face, however uninvited, was beyond my powers of reasoning. Then again, Holmes would probably say that what is beyond my powers of reasoning could occupy an entire library.

The kitten jumped into my lap, and I winced at her claws, carefully pulling her off so I could hold her at a distance. I was thankful her fur seemed mostly clean, a rarity for London strays. That and her size told me she must have been quite young indeed.

"I'm at a loss for what to do with her," I said. Holmes lay down his paper, and before he could utter a sound, I quickly added, "We cannot very well put her outside in this weather, such a thing would be beyond cruel. Besides that, she is pitiably thin and could do with some food."

Holmes scowled. "She is not staying."

I scowled back. "You can share your rooms with a harmless innocent creature for a few hours."

"Hmph!" He put the paper back up. "A few hours and no more."

 _He wouldn't react so if she were a large dog with a powerful nose_ , I thought with some scorn, then carried the kitten into the kitchen.

* * *

Filling her belly was a satisfying endeavor, but one I paid dearly for because it energized her far more than I anticipated. A youthful desire to play and explore combined with the excitement of a new environment sent her rushing all over our rooms. I'd had no prior experience with cats and was astounded at how high this one could jump and how quickly she could run. Between the bookshelves, tables, mantle, sofa, chairs, and counters, no place was inaccessible to our guest. I winced, and Holmes gave me a nasty glare when she gripped the sofa too hard with her claws, tearing a small hole.

"Nothing our dear landlady can't fix," I assured him. I reached for the kitten, but she evaded me yet again by leaping for the drapes. "Now, come here, you rascal!" I caught hold of her and gently pried her paws off to prevent another tear. She resisted at first, but after a few strokes, she stilled and meowed contentedly, if a little loudly. Holmes was about to make another unpleasant comment when our good landlady entered with a knock.

"Mr. Holmes, there's a—oh gracious, _there_ she is!" Mrs. Hudson held out her arms with delight upon seeing the kitten, and I handed her over. "I saw her trying to keep dry in the rain and couldn't bring myself not to bring her inside. I only turned my back for a moment when she disappeared. Never imagined she'd climbed all those stairs."

Holmes snapped his papers. "There's seemingly no shortage of things a cat can climb."

Mrs. Hudson now remembered her message. "Oh yes, Mr. Holmes. Your brother is here to see you. Shall I let him in?"

"At once, if you please," he said, folding his papers and raising his eyebrows in surprise. Mr. Mycroft Holmes was a rare visitor. "And feel free to take the stray with you."

I pursed my lips at his tone and gave that soft fur one last pet. "She's such a sweet thing, I hate to see her back on the cold streets."

"She'll survive," Holmes said.

Mrs. Hudson glared at his sarcasm. "I have no intention of abandoning her to the streets. Just the other day I was thinking that the mice are getting to be a problem downstairs—something you gentlemen are blissfully unaware of—and a cat would be just the thing to get rid of them. I do believe I shall adopt this little sweetheart." She turned away proudly, ignoring Holmes's angry countenance. Before he could complain too much, Mycroft's heavy steps trekked upstairs. He was out of breath by the time he dropped onto our sofa, which creaked as he sat.

"Were it not for the extremely confidential nature of this case, I should never have ventured all the way over here," Mycroft huffed. "Alas, even the Diogenes Club is not safe enough for a matter such as this." He noticed the tear and frowned. "What happened there?"

Sherlock, who a second ago had been lighting up with eagerness, now scowled. "Mrs. Hudson let a stray cat into our rooms."

"And a sweet, friendly kitten she was," I said, determined that not even my friend be permitted to besmirch her reputation.

Mycroft smirked amusedly. "I have no doubt. Unfortunately, my brother has never been fond of cats since the incident that happened when he was a child."

"Mycroft—"

"Oh? Please, explain." I leaned forward in my chair, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed eye. He told me so little of his childhood that when an opportunity to learn about it did present itself, I seized on it.

Sherlock started to say he didn't think that was necessary, but Mycroft continued. "When Sherlock was four years of age, and I was eleven, we visited an old aunt of ours. Everything in her house was old, including the cat she kept. This wasn't a playful kitten, but a tired, slow cat with little inclination for socializing. Most of us knew this and left it alone. But Sherlock…" he nodded at his brother, who continued to treat him to dirty looks. "He pestered the poor thing to death trying to get it to play with him, and when it had finally had enough, it scratched his arm. Not badly, mind you, but enough to draw a bit of blood. I'll never forget how he howled and carried on, and he has maintained a hatred of the animal since."

"It's hardly my fault if they're bad-tempered and lack the loyalty of dogs."

"Bad-tempered?" Mycroft laughed. "You realize that the cat scratched you only after you had chased it relentlessly around the house, pulled its tail, threw your toys at it, and tried to take its food? You should be thankful it only saw fit to scratch your arm and not to bite you. If I had been the cat, I'd have treated you far worse."

Sherlock shook his head. "Ha! That is not how I remember it at all."

"Well, we both know who has the superior mind, to say nothing of the fact that you were all of four years old while I had nearly reached adolescence."

"Regardless," Sherlock snapped, "That has nothing to do with how I feel about this cat. She has ripped a hole in my sofa, impaired my concentration with her constant mews, and came close to destroying my drapes!"

"Your compassion is inspiring," Mycroft said. "Seems to me you might forgive and forget the cat from your youth and give this new one a chance."

"Seems to me we might move on from cats and discuss what you came here to tell me about." I nearly laughed at Sherlock, for he had never worn such a childish pout. The next hour was filled with details of a case far too sensitive for me to ever consider even committing to paper, let alone publishing. After Mycroft left, Mrs. Hudson brought up our dinner. To my delight and Holmes's dismay, the kitten was tagging along at her heels, tail high and eyes bright.

"She's such a dear," our landlady cooed, setting down our trays. "She'll make the perfect companion. I simply must think of a name for her soon." Seeing Holmes's dark face, she straightened up. "And you had better get used to it, Mr. Holmes! After an afternoon of her catching all the mice far better than I ever could, I can say that wild horses could not compel me to get rid of her."

I smiled, lifting the kitten onto my lap. She settled quickly, leaning into my gentle hand and purring. I couldn't fathom not loving her.

Nonetheless, Holmes barked, "Might you be compelled to keep her out of my rooms then?"

"Holmes, you are being a brute," I chastised.

"Indeed!" Mrs. Hudson agreed. "And to think, I thought you cared for animals."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "I thought the same of you, and then you told me that under no circumstances would I be permitted a dog on your property. And yet," he pointed to the kitten.

"That is completely different!" Mrs. Hudson insisted. "Dogs are noisy, dirty creatures. This precious kitten is far more suitable."

I had an idea. "Here," I said, standing up and holding the kitten in my hands. "Just hold her for a moment, you'll see how dear she is." Ignoring Holmes's protests, I carefully set her on his lap. She blinked up at him and mewed.

Holmes held up his hands, as if afraid to touch her. "She isn't like the cat from before," I assured him. "This one will let you pet her."

She made herself comfortable on his lap and tilted her head curiously, likely wondering why he wasn't stroking her. At my urging, Holmes slowly lowered a finger and traced her head and ears. She leaned into the touch and mewed, then licked his hand and purred.

Holmes recoiled a little at first, then stilled. His expression was unchanging, except for the eyes. He will deny it to his dying day, but I swear I saw just a slight, small sparkle of warmth in them. His hand moved further down her back toward her tail, and I think Mrs. Hudson and I both noticed it was gentler this time.

"I suppose I shall get used to her," he finally conceded. "Though she'll certainly need to be housebroken."

Mrs. Hudson and I smiled at each other. As those who knew Holmes best, we could already tell from his gentle hands and softened face that for all he might grouch and grumble, he and our kitten were going to be fast friends.


End file.
